Essays

Wild On The Prairie: Learning

Philosophical Pedagogy
December 17, 2000

“I want a test!”

How many educators hear students begging for a test? Kids hate tests. People suffer from test anxiety, dreading an upcoming one until stomachs churn and cold sweats pop out. Tension mounts until hyper-agitation makes a person impossible to be around. (And this student is begging for a test.)

“Why do you want a test?”

“So I can see how I am doing.”

“In relation to what? The other students? Rachel has had all the horticulture classes. She has already learned that plants have commonalities that make it easy to lump them together. She has been watching several hundred species at the college, and at the nursery where she worked. If I give a test of plant knowledge she would know much more than you. If grades are intended to rate standing in the class she would get an A plus and you would get a D. You are a beginner compared to her.”

“But” –

“You are taking three plant I.D. classes. That means you have to remember 450 plants, their Latin names, their families, where they like to grow, how much you should water, what soil amendments they need, what pests they get and when they get those pests. In my class you have to remember what part of the world the plant originates from, and the cultural uses and connections. I could go on and on. You are on overload. Plants are not facts. You could remember 450 facts in a semester, I am sure, because you are a very bright kid.”

“But how do I know what I know?”

“We just spent two hours walking around. Your job was to tell me what you knew. How did you do?”

“Not real well – I kept getting frustrated – I did not know half of what you pointed out.”

“So you felt bad? Did you keep track of how many you did know?”

“About thirty, probably.”

“No, more like a hundred.”

“But Rachel knew so many more.”

“Yeah, she can tell me about over 200 of the species of the plants out here. That does not mean she is smarter, or has learned more from this class. I probably have not challenged her enough. She has a photographic memory. After she has looked at a plant a couple of times, she brings the image of it up in her computer-like brain at any time. When we are on a field trip and we see a plant in the wild, she can turn to me and say – this grows at Gone Native on the trail by the little house, and it is the seventeenth plant west of the Mexican Redbud.”

“But shouldn’t I be expected to do the same?”

“Think of Sybil. She grows a lot of these plants at her house. She plants them in the middle of her Bermuda grass and lets them fight it out. She is watching 70 species or more grow in her yard, and she has had that house for over a year. She can tell me when the different plants bloom, what happens to them when it is hot and dry and so blasted by drought they look almost dead. Rachel cannot do that. So, is she not as smart as Sybil?”

Taylor gave me an exasperated look.

“I appreciate the chance for this pedagogical discussion. There are several ways to give you a test, if you really want one. How about this – you can pick out ten plants, but you have to write a page on each one.”

“A whole page” — Taylor’s eyes bugged out in consternation. (Panic! Panic! Panic! The poor guy had a Titanic feeling. “I’m sinking, I’m drowning.”)

“Yeah, you have been looking at these plants since the first of September. How did the Chinese Pistache look then? What color were its nuts then? Do you remember its smell? Are the branches angular and present a stiff form, or is it droopy and casual and Oriental in texture like the Desert Willow? What is it used as rootstock for? What color did the nuts turn later, and what color are they now? Do you remember what I said about the Pistaches at my old house, and how they survived for ten years after it was torn down? Do Pistache seeds germinate easily? What color are its leaves in the fall? What birds have we seen eating the nuts in the last week or two? Is it the Pistache, the Soapberry, or the Flame Leaf Sumac that has ridges along the mid-stem of the compound leaf? What sort of bark does it have? What family is it in? What does it smell like?”

Taylor was covering his ears and shaking his head.

“How about this sort of test – Name five evergreen shrubs we have studied.”

The class jumped on the question and worked out the answer, finding that they knew more than five.

“Name some more evergreen plants with a common form, but lots of variation within the one form.”

“Huh?”

“What else is evergreen out there on the trail. Close your eyes, and pretend to walk along. There is a very southwestern form of plant that is evergreen.”

“Oh – the yuccas and agaves and basketgrass.”

“What is the fourth plant with that form – there are two species of it, one is green and the other is blue.”

The class collectively scratched their heads. “Hmmmm….” (Their thoughts seemed audible.)

“Both species are planted near the circle drive.”

The frustration grew, and exasperated exhalations made me think a steam engine train was coming.

“It grows on the land you just bought down in the Davis Mountains, Taylor. At least I bet it does. And that brings up another question. Name 5 species of plants that are here at the Arboretum that also grow in the Davis Mountains. Then name 5 that grow here that grow in the State Park over at Big Spring.”

The class jumped on the list of plants from Big Spring, and listing a dozen were encouraged to tackle the Davis Mountains list.

“List ten shade plants.”

The class did it.

“You all have been taking tests for three hours. The walk was a test; this has been a test. You have been testing your knowledge, and adding to it as well, because we have been doing all of this orally. A test on paper is a static thing, at best, and has a limited influence.”

“Huh?”

“With a small class like this, I know where each of you are in the learning process. I could not teach this way with a big class, because I could not continually quiz you. Ol’ Ed Kurtz at UTPB taught me this instruction technique. It is demanding, both of the student and the teacher.”

I knew I was talking to myself, and not making sense to the students. I tried again.

“The best way to learn is by teaching yourself. A person becomes fascinated with a subject and reads all about it, watches videos, talks to people that know about the subject, and totally immerses himself in the subject. Another excellent way to learn is the participatory method. You work with the plants. For example, propagating, deadheading, pruning, making bouquets, and processing a product made from a given plant are all ways to participate with plants. We did some of that. You learn some intangibles, too, like the satisfaction of an artful pruning job, or the sweet smell of humus rich soil, or the wonderful presence of the snail-eating beetle. You also learn some associated knowledge that helps create a garden – such as what birds and butterflies come to which plants.”

I took a breath.

“Another method is the dialogue. I like this technique a lot, because I can monitor your knowledge. If I were to simply lecture, I would not know what you are learning. I ask a question, and from your answer I have several choices to make in continuing the dialogue. I can add to what I said. I can tell a story about some facet of the plant, or how people have used it, or tell you something that will maybe stick in your brain to help you remember. I can ask another question to stimulate your thinking and help you figure out a way to associate the knowledge so it can be assimilated in your intrinsic being.”

“What do you mean?”

“If we did the traditional form of class, you would remember facts long enough to pass a test, and then you would forget most of them. I know I did. I am a pretty good test taker -- I can remember acing most tests I took -- but a lot of that information is no longer within me. You want to be a nursery owner someday, right? We have talked about a lot of the issues an owner has to contemplate, right? My job is to inspire you, to help you explore your love for plants, to enrich your knowledge so that your love of plants sings out to your customers. You do not want your nursery to be like the modern super-warehouse that presents a thousand choices without a soul anywhere in the place that can tell a customer anything significant about the products. What makes a nursery successful is the knowledge of its staff. You are a teacher when you run a nursery.”

We all sat quietly. I was all talked out.

“Let’s call it a day. Do you get my point? Rote teaching, with tests punctuating the semester, is teaching to the lowest common denominator. It is the easiest form of teaching, and often is the only form of teaching that is practical for large classes. Impassioned show-time lecturers can make that form of teaching work well. But, I am sure you remember teachers you have had who just droned on and on – and, unfortunately, that is often the type of professor one gets when taking education courses to learn how to teach.”

I remembered my days hanging out at the Evergreen State College in Olympia. Professors do not give grades at that university.

“I am demanding that you evaluate yourself. Did you apply yourself? Did you read or utilize other ways to learn about the subject? Did your knowledge increase? Did you spend time discussing the class with other people? Have you taught other people something you learned in this class? You want a final? What does the word “final” mean? It means you are never coming back to the class. It means you are through with learning, and that you will forget most of what you ‘learned.’ Taylor, you have been the student that has pushed this class the most. You have instilled us with a sense of discipline and focus. You get us off the garden chairs and up and walking. Evaluate everything about the class. Honestly evaluate me. Most so-called teacher evaluation is pro forma politeness. I will put whatever grade you tell me on your transcript.”